Did hang a salt-fish on his hook, which he
With fervency drew up.

Cleo.

That time!-O times!I laugh'd him out of patience; and that night I laugh'd him into patience: and next morn, Ere the ninth hour, I drunk him to his bed; Then put my tires and mantles on him, whilst I wore his sword Philippan. O! from Italy;

Enter a Messenger.

Ram thou thy fruitful tidings in mine ears,

That long time have been barren.

Mess.

Cleo. Antony's dead?

Madam, madam,

If thou say so, villain, thou kill'st thy mistress:
But well and free,

If thou so yield him, there is gold, and here
My bluest veins to kiss; a hand, that kings
Have lipp'd, and trembled kissing.

Mess.

First, madam, he's well.

Cleo. Why, there's more gold. But, sirrah, mark;

we use

To say, the dead are well: bring it to that,

The gold I give thee, will I melt, and pour
Down thy ill-uttering throat.

Mess. Good madam, hear me.

Cleo.

Well, go to, I will;

But there's no goodness in thy face: If Antony
Be free, and healthful,-why so tart a favour
To trumpet such good tidings? If not well,

Thou should'st come like a fury crown'd with snakes, Not like a formal man.

Mess.

Will't please you hear me

?

Cleo. I have a mind to strike thee, ere thou

speak'st:

Yet, if thou say, Antony lives, is well,

Or friends with Cæsar, or not captive to him,

I'll set thee in a shower of gold, and hail

Rich pearls upon thee 21.

Mess. Cæsar and he are greater friends than ever.

Cleo. Make thee a fortune from me.

Mess.

But yet, madam,—

Cleo. I do not like but yet, it does allay

The good precedence; fye upon but yet:
But yet is as a gaoler to bring forth

Some monstrous malefactor. Pr'ythee, friend,
Pour out the pack of matter to mine ear,

The good and bad together: He's friends with Cæsar;
In state of health, thou say'st; and, thou say'st, free.
Mess. Free, madam! no; I made no such report:
He's bound unto Octavia.

spurn thine eyes

Cleo.

Like balls before me; I'll unhair thy head;

[She hales him up and down. Thou shalt be whipp'd with wire, and stew'd in brine, Smarting in ling'ring pickle.

Mess.

Gracious madam,

I, that do bring the news, made not the match.

Cleo. Say, 'tis not so, a province I will give thee, And make thy fortunes proud: the blow thou hadst Shall make thy peace, for moving me to rage; And I will boot thee with what gift beside Thy modesty can beg.

Mess.

Cleo. Rogue, thou hast liv'd too long.

Mess.

He's married, madam.

[draws a dagger.

Nay, then I'll run:

[Exit.

What mean you, madam? I have made no fault.

Char. Good madam, keep yourself within yourself; The man is innocent.

Cleo. Some innocents 'scape not the thunderbolt.Melt Egypt into Nile! and kindly creatures Turn all to serpents!-Call the slave again; Though I am mad, I will not bite him:-Call.

Char. He is afeard to come.

Cleo.

I will not hurt him :

These hands do lack nobility, that they strike

A meaner than myself; since I myself

Have given myself the cause.- Come hither, sir.

Re-enter Messenger.

Though it be honest, it is never good

To bring bad news: Give to a gracious message
An host of tongues; but let ill tidings tell

Themselves, when they be felt.

Mess.

Cleo. Is he married?

I have done my duty.

I cannot hate thee worser than I do,

If thou again say, Yes.

Mess.

He is married, madam.

Cleo. The gods confound thee! dost thou hold there

still?

Mess. Should I lie, madam?

Cleo.

O, I would, thou didst;

So half my Egypt were submerg'd, and made
A cistern for scal'd snakes! Go, get thee hence;
Had'st thou Narcissus in thy face, to me

Thou would'st appear most ugly. He is married?
Mess. I crave your highness' pardon.

Cleo.

He is married?

Mess. Take no offence, that I would not offend you:

To punish me for what you make me do,

Seems much unequal: He is married to Octavia.

Cleo. O, that his fault should make a knave of

thee,

That art not!-What? thou'rt sure of't?-Get thee

hence:

The merchandise, which thou hast brought from

Rome,

Are all too dear for me; Lie they upon thy hand,

And be undone by 'em!

Char.

[Exit Messenger.

Good your highness, patience.

Cleo. In praising Antony, I have disprais'd Cæsar. Char. Many times, madam.

Cleo.

Lead me from hence,

I am paid for't now.

I faint; O Iras, Charmian,-'Tis no matter:

Go to the fellow, good Alexas; bid him
Report the feature of Octavia, her years,

Her inclination, let him not leave out

The colour of her hair:-bring me word quickly.

[Exit Alexas.

22 Let him for ever go:-Let him not-Charmian, Though he be painted one way like a Gorgon, T'other way he's a Mars:-Bid you Alexas

[To Mardian.

Bring me word, how tall she is.-Pity me, Charmian, But do not speak to me.-Lead me to my

chamber.

[Exeunt.